


Choice

by ratsofthecaribbean



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, Eye Trauma, Flying Dutchman strangeness, Other, all relationships are kinda vague sorry to all the two jones x jack stans out there, dubcon mostly because jack doesn't really get what he's getting into, this is really stretching the definition of porn and also i have no idea what words i've written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 12:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30089427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratsofthecaribbean/pseuds/ratsofthecaribbean
Summary: In which Jack has psychological nightmare sex and gets his brains scrambled like an egg
Relationships: Davy Jones/Jack Sparrow, Jack Sparrow/Bootstrap Bill Turner, Jack Sparrow/Various
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Choice

Jack wouldn’t consider himself a pessimistic person. Pessimism breeds inactivity, and that is neither useful, nor really his style. 

Stuck in the  _ Flying Dutchman’s  _ brig, however, it’s hard not to feel like the glass is half empty. Especially with Bootstrap Bill’s motionless face staring down at him from the wall. The rest of him is there too, Jack is pretty sure, but it’s damn hard to tell where Bill ends and the ship begins. The face is the only thing that sticks out. 

“Look at us,” Jack says. “Who would have expected the two of us to meet again like this?” 

Bill doesn’t respond. Really, it’s the least of Jack’s worries right now, but he can’t help but feel a tad insulted. 

“What, can’t say hello to an old friend?” 

Jack has been sitting on the floor ever since he got thrown in the brig, but now he gets up. He approaches Bill, slowly and cautiously, until they’re only inches apart. Bill’s face still hasn’t moved, and Jack is finding it increasingly difficult not to poke him. His hand hovers just above Bill’s cheek, where a starfish seems to be digging itself into his skin, and even without touching, Jack can feel a slight chill radiating off him. 

“Bill,” he says, hushed now. “William?” 

There’s still no response, and Jack takes a deep breath, before brushing his fingers over Bill’s face. It’s even colder than he’d expected and his hands shake as a shiver runs through him. Still, he forces himself to keep his hands in place, and slowly grows used to the unnatural coolness. 

"William," he repeats. "I know you're still in there.”

Bill’s eyelids flutter open. Hesitantly, as though he can’t quite believe himself. 

“Jack?” His lips barely move, and his voice is low, but it still seems to vibrate throughout the brig, echoing slightly and giving the impression of it coming from all around Jack. He winces, but Bill doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are on Jack, yet somewhat unfocused, and the sense of being watched comes less from Bill himself and more from all around the brig. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bill continues, still not quite opening his mouth enough to make as clear a sound as he’s making. 

“No I shouldn’t,” Jack agrees, forcing himself to ignore Bill’s strange manner of communicating. Bill doesn’t seem to notice his unease, he just keeps speaking. 

“You can’t stay here,” he insists and Jack has to resist the urge to slap him. Of course he shouldn’t be here. Of course he can’t stay. If Jack got to choose he’d be far away from here, and preferably completely alone. But he hasn’t been choosing much lately. He didn’t  _ choose  _ to end up on the  _ Dutchman,  _ he didn’t  _ choose  _ to be stuck with someone who helped mutineer against him in a cell. He didn’t even choose not to swear the oath and become properly bound to the ship. That had been on account of Beckett, who no doubt has plans that Jack will have no choice about participating in. 

“I don’t intend to.” He swallows his rage. It’s not productive, he reminds himself, and it’ll only eat at him if he indulges it. 

Bill is still ice cold to the touch, but he’s still something to hold on to. He’s decidedly  _ alive  _ in the way he moves slightly with each light, ragged breath, and Jack can’t afford to waste a small comfort like that over petty anger. 

“Think we can get you out of there, Bill?” he makes his voice sweet, almost cooing at Bill. After a moment of consideration, he begins slowly stroking his cheek, tracing intricate patterns with a feather-light touch. It’s a tried and true method of getting what he wants, and his best option here, where he has nothing of value to offer. 

Bill doesn’t say anything, and his eyes fall shut again. But there’s the slightest hint of a smile on his face, so Jack keeps going, even as he starts to lose feeling in his fingertips. 

A hand grabs onto him, to his side, just below the waist, and he freezes in place. It’s not Bill’s, or at least he can’t imagine it is. It’s far too thin, almost skeletal, yet still holds him in place with an iron grip. Bill opens his eyes, seemingly confused at the lack of touch and Jack forces himself to continue, even as the grip of the hand grows hard enough to be painful. 

“Jack.” Bill’s voice is coming from behind him now. “Jack, you can’t be here.” 

“I know.” Jack forces a smile, even as a second, a third and a fourth hand reach out for him, holding onto whatever they can find. His arm, his ankle, his coat. “But I am, aren’t I?” 

More hands tug at his clothes, pulling him closer until a jagged piece of god knows what jabs at his side. His forehead is pressed tightly against where he imagines Bill’s would be, and he has to let go of Bill’s face to push against the insisting hands. It’s not long before the tension makes his arms tremble, and he has to grit his teeth to keep himself from crying out. 

“Bill.” His voice is shaking, and it almost seems to egg the hands on, but at least Bill seems to notice he’s being talked to. With a series of deep, cracking noises, bones breaking and wood shattering, he frees one hand from the  _ Dutchman’s  _ hull and cups Jack’s cheek. 

Silently, he copies the same stroking movements that Jack did earlier, and Jack can’t help but lean into the only thing approaching softness he can picture for himself in the near future. It’s stiff, and cold as death, but comforting. 

Bill guides him, angles his face so that their lips can meet, and the hands pulling at him finally seem to grow less impatient. The kiss tastes like salt and iron, but Jack doesn’t let it dissuade him. He’s the first to deepen it, licking at Bill’s bottom lip and opening his mouth in an invitation. Bill moves along with it, but never ahead of Jack in the kiss. Instead, most of his focus still seems to be on stroking Jack’s face. His hand moves upward, slightly, to rest against Jack’s temple and suddenly, Jack feels a new kind of pressure build under Bill’s hand. The ones holding onto him are painful, yes, but this sensation is so alien it takes him a good while to figure out what’s going on. His head, his  _ skull,  _ shifts under the weight of Bill’s fingers, and the shock makes Jack bite down. 

Bill’s lip pops like a bubble, and cold water spills down Jack’s chest, now heaving with every panicked breath. He doesn’t dare to move his head, afraid of what will happen when he does, but he does manage to reach up, his own hand shaking violently as it touches Bill’s. And his skull is still solid. It doesn’t budge at the touch, as Jack had feared. 

He can’t speak, and Bill shouldn’t be able to either, but Jack still hears his voice. 

“You’re warm.” It echoes, and Jack could swear he hears other voices mixing with it.  _ “You’re warm.” “He’s warm.” “It’s warm.”  _ Like a rumor passed through a crowded room, in hushed conspiratory voices. 

“Let us in.” 

Jack kisses Bill again, desperate for something familiar as the pressure on his skull returns. His knees are weak, he has to fight to stay upright, and cold sweat and salt water makes his clothes stick to him. Then, in just a moment, the feeling in his legs is faint, his clothes melt into his skin and Jack’s skull softly cracks open, as easily as an eggshell. 

Bill’s tongue is a slim tendril, the tentacle of a small octopus, as it slips into Jack’s mouth and down his throat. It makes him gag, and he can hear the echoing, Other voices clearly now, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. He feels like there’s someone behind him, a cold, solid presence, but even though his eyes are closed he can clearly see that the brig is empty, save for himself and Bill. 

Jack shudders, and he can feel Bill’s fingers hit the edges of where he’s broken through Jack’s head. It doesn’t hurt. Or well, it doesn’t hurt as much as he thinks it should. And the Other voices draw much of his attention. They’re starting to distinguish themselves, but they’re far too many to count and Jack is feeling slightly dizzy anyway. 

Bill pushes further into his head, with both his hands and tongue and Jack finds it harder and harder to breathe. He’s drowning, he realizes, surrounded by water on all sides and unable to move. 

He drowns for hours, or moments, or both, and then he’s back in the brig. It’s crowded now, by shadowy figures that become more diffuse the harder he tries to look at them. He probably can’t see them because his eyes are still closed, he reasons, but doesn’t actually open them. Clawed hands scratch at his abdomen, others at his sides and one at his chest. 

The Other voices are still indistinct, save for one, that cuts through the others like a knife. 

“Welcome to the  _ Flying Dutchman,  _ Sparrow,” Davy Jones hisses as Jack’s chest splits open. 

An almost surprisingly human hand enters him, passing through his ribs with ease. It finds his heart and squeezes it hard, and Jack screams. Whether from horror, pain or the waves of strange pleasure that runs through him he isn’t sure, and after just a moment he can’t even hear it any more, even though he feels his throat ache from it. 

His pulse is uneven and rings in his ears. Someone, though it can really only be Jones, runs a myriad of tentacles up the back of his neck and over his face. They pry at his lips and tightly shut eyelids, and soon one of them has slipped into his right eye. It circles it, like one would work a sweet with one’s tongue, and it sends Jack over some kind of edge. He can’t say if it’s pleasurable. It’s decay,  _ rot _ , his flesh falling apart wherever he’s being touched and he loves it. He never wants it to end, and when he falls, landing with the back of his head first it’s with a smile on his face that’s wide enough to hurt. 

He’s fully clothed, his head is whole and he still sees with his right eye despite everything. Only a few seconds can have passed, and he already wants more. 

  
_ This _ , he realizes, grinning at Bill, this is something he can choose. 

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to OUR twisted mind. please do not ask me what any of this means. I do not have answers


End file.
